A Winter's Evening
by Ithilmir
Summary: Prequel to "The Fallen Angel". 1824. Detailing the nocturnal wanderings of a certain Inspector one winter evening, and a slightly different interpretation as to how he got his transfer to Paris. COMPLETE.
1. Part I

**A/N:** This may or may not be a mistake. The idea for this came whilst I was listening to the single _"The Woman in White"_ from the musical of the same name, and I can usually trust song-fic as far as I can throw it. Originally intended for Pontmercy's holiday challenge back in December, but it didn't make the deadline. Still, better late than never.

_Disclaimer:_ One line is directly nicked from Hugo. Ten points and a thrup'ny stamp to whoever guesses which one.

"_She calls to you from every shadow  
And you think you see her silhouette.  
A dream that you can't quite remember,  
But a face you can't forget;  
The Woman in White…"_ – 'The Woman in White', by A. Lloyd-Webber

* * *

Montreuil-sur-Mer – January, 1824

**Part I**

The situation the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer was in could be summed up in the following sentence; M. Madeleine was gone. But who, dear reader, is, or rather was M. Madeleine? And more importantly, what was his connection with the current misfortunes of Montreuil-sur-Mer? The question as to what M. Madeleine had been was easy enough to answer. M. Madeleine had until recently been mayor of Montreuil; a businessman, a magistrate, a philanthropist, the bringer of prosperity to the town and, to many, a saint. But as to whom, this was a question that had baffled everyone since he had first arrived almost exactly eight years ago. Kind, generous and unambitious (the role of mayor having been all but forced upon him), few were not won over by his seemingly infinite good nature… But then a case had come to the Assizes, a denouncement had been made, confusion ensued and finally it turned out the mayor was in fact nothing more than an ex-convict guilty of breaking parole. So began the misery of Montreuil.

Madeleine's business had failed. Those workers managing to find alternative employment did so at a less than generous wage; those who could not perished or resorted to crime. Churches and philanthropists were finding it a struggle to keep up the running of the poor houses, hospitals and schools. Indeed, it could be justly said that Montreuil-sur-Mer was suffering, and although the well-to-do publicly approved of the arrest of the ex-convict, privately it was whispered that the disappearance of M. Madeline would bring about the ruin of the town. It was also on the lips of many that ruin was the fault of one man, and one man alone.

His name was Javert, and he belonged to the police.

A tall, dark and seclusive man, Javert had taken up his post as Inspector of Police only three years ago. Little was known of his life before that; indeed, little was known of his life now save that he had no family, no relations, and held great favour with the Secretary to the Prefect in Paris. Already the Inspector had acquired an infamous reputation; known to be merciless as Beelzebub and incorruptible as diamond, his name or presence alone was enough to keep order in most cases. To many, Montreuil's misfortunes seemed to have sprung from this man's actions, as with the arrest of the mayor Javert had brought a curse upon the town. It was common knowledge he had come to blows several times with M. Madeleine in the past. Was he not said to be a gypsy? Yes, Javert had cursed them. Javert was cursed!

On this particular evening the said Javert was walking along the near-deserted streets of Montreuil in silence; head bowed against the driving snow, brim of his hat pulled low, coat buttoned up high against the piercing wind, chin tucked firmly into his cravat. Around and about there were a few odd people; gamins and beggars huddled in doorways, the occasional over optimistic prostitute shivering hopefully next to a brazier, a couple of men deciding to brave the elements and stumble to/back from the pub, and one freezing cold police inspector who reasoned he must be insane to be out on a night like this.

He turned the corner into the next street, stepping over a bundle of rags that may or may not be a body and his thoughts wandered to the recent 'departure' of M. Madeleine, or Jean Valjean as he was now known. But he had been Jean Valjean all the time; all the time that he was mayor, when he founded his business, made his fortune, pretended to grieve with widows at funerals, said his prayers at Sunday mass… It was all Jean Valjean, and Javert was the only one who had been able to see through his lies. It was indeed a satisfying feeling to know that he had been right all along, that any criticism or doubt as to his ability had been withdrawn. He had done a great service not only to the town but to the State as well; but, as always, there were some who didn't see it like that, and Javert could never understand why. He had detected a convict who had broken parole and unmasked a corrupt official; what else had they expected him to do? Turn a blind eye whilst a base and exceedingly dangerous man made a mockery of the whole judicial system? Stand back and watch while public servants were disregarded and humiliated in favour of prostitutes and thieves? It was his duty to arrest criminals, it was his job! The day he started to question that he would no longer be fit to be a policeman.

The snow swirled around half-heartedly as it was lifted by a short-lived gust of wind. Somewhere in the distance the bell of the Abbatiale Saint-Saulve sounded its tuneless knell, solemnly informing those still awake that it was eleven o'clock. Javert shivered and pulled his coat around him tighter, letting out a sigh of frustration as he did so. What was the point of patrolling tonight? No one with an ounce of sense would venture out in this weather. To be fair the wind had dropped quite a bit in the last hour, but it was still no night to be out on the streets, and those who were would most likely be dead by morning. It was at this point, as he was about to turn into the rue des Étuves, that he heard a voice call his name.

"_Monsieur, Monsieur Javert!"_

Javert stopped. The street he had just walked down had been empty. True, he could have missed someone – beggars had a knack for creeping into the woodwork – but he was sure there had been no one there. Nor had he heard a door open onto the street from any of the surrounding houses.

"_Please, monsieur; turn around. Let me see you."_

It was a female voice, he was sure; either that or a very young child. Whoever it was, it was a strange request to make and he wondered for a moment whether he'd heard them right. He turned to face what had previously been an empty street, only to discover that it was no longer empty. Standing in the middle of the dark and bitter lane was a woman in her nightdress. Her hair, a beautiful shade of golden-blond, was cut short, presumably from some sickness she had recently suffered or, as Javert reasoned, was still suffering from. Might have been pretty once, but now only a pale scarecrow remained of what could have been an attractive young woman. He considered the possibility that she might be afflicted with some mental disorder and escaped the care of her nurses, there being few other reasons why she would be wandering the streets in her nightdress in the middle of winter. He was just considering how to respond when the woman spoke again.

"_Monsieur," _she said, holding her hand out to him as she spoke. _"Monsieur Javert, please, come nearer. Let me speak with you."_

The voice was pleading, alluring; a soft, innocent ring to it. Javert, however, frowned. She seemed peaceable enough, though that was never a certain indication with the sick.

"I can hear you from here," he said levelly. "There is no need for you nor I to come any closer."

The woman let out a sigh and lowered her arm, placing her hands by her side. She fixed him with the sort of look a mother would give to a trying toddler.

"_Still the same,"_ she said wearily. _"I should not have expected otherwise."_

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" Javert asked curtly. His toes were starting to freeze inside his boots and he was thinking very fondly of the stove back at the police post. He was not in the mood for playing games. "I don't recall seeing you before."

"_You do know me, M. Javert," _said the woman patiently. _"Although we have only ever spoken twice; both times you shouted at me."_

This information didn't help Javert in narrowing down the field of potential suspects. He had lost his temper with a lot of people in his time, and a very high percentage of these seemed to have for some reason been female. Blonde women cut it down to about twenty-five; blonde women with short hair made it ten.

"Perhaps a name, ma'amselle?" Javert prompted.

The woman looked slightly taken aback, if not hurt by his lack of recognition.

"_Fantine,"_ she said quietly, after a pause. _"My name is Fantine."_

Silence settled around the two figures along with the snow. Javert seemed to become as a statue; not a muscle moved in his face as he fixed her with a doubting look.

"_Do you think I am mad?"_

"Yes," said Javert, not hesitating to consider his answer. The woman smiled, amused.

"_What makes you so sure you are not, monsieur?"_

"You cannot be the woman Fantine," he said, firmly. "She died. I saw it happen."

"_Yes, monsieur,"_ she said, quite patiently._ "I am dead."_

Before he could remark she reached out her hand and placed it against the wall of the alley and… it disappeared into the brickwork. Into the solid brickwork. The solid brickwork of a solid brick wall. The solid brickwork of a solid brick wall of a solid house. Javert retreated a couple of steps as 'Fantine' brought her hand back into view.

"Impossible…" he murmured under his breath.

"_Please, monsieur,"_ said Fantine, taking a step nearer, her hands held out pleadingly. _"Do not be afraid of me. You had no reason to be in life, why now when I am dead?"_

"This is a trick!" Javert's voice was rising now, growing ever more uneasy as he tried to make sense of what he'd just seen, but failing miserably. "An imagination, someone dressed up…"

Fantine gave him a pitying look, then held out her hand to him.

"_Touch me, monsieur," _she said._ "Touch me and we will see what you believe."_

Javert stared at her hand poised steadily in mid air. It looked real enough… except for how the falling snowflakes seemed to pass straight through it. He half raised his arm to comply, but his gloved fingers trembled as he did so and fell limply back down by his side. Silently, Fantine approached, reaching up and touching the side of his face, gently laying her palm against his cheek. Immediately Javert let out an involuntary gasp, as where her hand touched his skin he felt as if he'd bathed his head in a bucket of ice, a searing coldness spreading through his skull and into his brain.

"_You felt that, didn't you?"_ she said softly, her blue eyes locking with his.

Javert tried to say something, but found that her touch and gaze seemed to have frozen his tongue as well.

"_And you can feel this too."_

Without breaking eye contact, she removed her hand from his cheek and placed it on his chest. The cold pierced through his greatcoat and layers of clothing as if they didn't exist, penetrating to his heart and lungs. Instead of a gasp this time a sob escaped his throat, his head bowing and shoulders contracting, yet his shocked gaze continued to be locked to that of the dead woman's.

"_Do you believe me now, monsieur?"_

Javert continued to stare, a small squeak escaping from the back of his throat just before his tongue seemed to thaw out.

"I… I, I do not believe in ghosts!"

"_Have you ever considered that ghosts might believe in you, monsieur?"_ she asked, not unkindly, giving him an encouraging little smile. _"It does work both ways, you know."_

"Why? Why are you here? What do you want?"

"_Do you not know, monsieur?"_

Javert forced himself to shake his head.

"No… No, I don't."

"_I am here to bring you a message, monsieur," _she said quietly, carrying on seamlessly. _"And it reads as follows; You must learn to love. You must learn to love, or else you will suffer a terrible fate."_

Javert frowned, a helpless expression in his eyes.

"But… What?"

"_You are a proud man, M. Javert, and you have every right to be; but unless you realise the danger of this and learn to love and place your trust in others, that pride will be your downfall. You must learn to forgive, monsieur; and to trust."_

"Why? For whom? For what?"

Fantine looked at him steadily, her blue eyes focussed on him and him alone. When she spoke again her voice was barely audible.

"_I do not intervene on behalf of Heaven, M. Javert; but on behalf of Jean Valjean."_

At the mention of Valjean's name something akin to fireworks went off inside Javert's skull. The spell he seemed to have been under was suddenly broken, and he looked at her in horror.

"What!"

"_You think that this is the end? That he has returned to prison and that will be the end of it? No, monsieur; it's only the beginning. Jean Valjean lives to fight another day, and your paths will cross again. And what will happen when you next meet? Will you pursue him once more?"_

"What else do you expect me to do?" Javert was shaking; shaking with fury at this absurd situation, that he was engaging in conversation with a theoretically dead whore, from the cold that still numbed his brain, and fury that he was, in some small way, frightened. That he was still standing there upset him even more.

"_If you will not listen for his sake, then listen for your own."_ Fantine's tone had grown sterner. _"Your lives are inextricably linked; you will never be rid of each other, no matter how hard you try. Unless you make your peace with him you shall destroy him as he shall destroy you!"_

"This is madness! You said Valjean, and you said _love_? I to love Valjean? To trust a thief?"

"_He is a changed man, monsieur," _she said, pleadingly._ "So different from the thief who tried to escape prison, stole from a bishop or assaulted guards at Toulon. He is a good man; he has already suffered enough for his crimes."_

"So just because he got a lot of money and flung it at the homeless he's a saint now, is he? Just because he gave some tart a comfortable deathbed and promised to take in her brat I'm expected to let a dangerous man go and pretend he no longer exists? No, I will not listen to you; not to a woman who is supposed to be dead!"

"_There is no escape, monsieur," _she warned._ "Nothing will free you, and you will not rest until you have made peace – even after you are dead!" _

Javert turned to leave, shutting her out of his mind; but in that moment Fantine leapt forward, grabbing his face and turning him back to meet her eyes. Javert let out a cry as once again the cold of her touch seared into his flesh, but for all he tried he could not break her hold, for she suddenly seemed to have strength to rival a thousand men. Her eyes searched his soul, delving into places he did not know or had denied the existence of for many years, sensing memories and sorrows, opening up thoughts and desires for the world to see. Javert willed his legs to run, but something like abject terror glued him to the spot, as if his will to move or think freely was being sapped away with every second he continued to stare into those clear blue depths.

Finally after what had seemed like an age, she let go and he fell to his knees, gasping from the shock of the cold and having seen his entire life played back before his eyes in a few seconds.

"_Do you know what the people of this town say about you, Monsieur Javert?" _she said quietly, looking solemnly at the shaking figure on the ground._ "They say you are a bringer of bad luck; a raven amongst the doves, a man to be shunned as if the Mark of Cain were imprinted on his forehead. In their eyes, inspector, you have been transfigured into a creature of ill omen. Do you not find this disturbing? If you were doing what is right and what is good, monsieur, why would they call you such things? Why would they curse you and spit where you have just trod?"_

Fantine took a step closer.

"_I have seen you for what you really are, Monsieur Javert. And if you cannot see it, then you are far more blind than I thought you were. Make peace with Jean Valjean now and except the friendship and comfort he can offer you. Without Valjean, monsieur, there is no hope for you… in this life or the next."_

Javert suddenly found himself running down the street, his legs driven by blind panic, his heart thumping, his feet pounding on the cobblestones, taking in heavy lungfuls of air as he ran. _'Run, run, run!'_ was the only thought that raged through his head as his long legs carried him through the backstreets, passing various townspeople who stared in astonishment as he passed. Somewhere along the way his hat parted company with his head, but being possessed by an overwhelming instinct for self-preservation, he did not notice. After much running he came out of an alleyway into the comparative openness of one of the town's squares. He ground to a halt, looking around slightly dazed to see where he was. What was this place called again? He had been here before several times… Place… Place de la Poissonerie. Place de la _Poissonerie?_ He had run halfway across the town!

He paused to combat the sudden dizziness that came over him, straightening as best as he could whilst trying to get his thoughts aligned. What had just happened back there? Had he really seen what he thought he saw? How was it possible to commune with a woman who died months ago? What madness was she telling him? Had he finally lost his mind? The traces of her cold touch still lingered on his face and in his chest; but it could have been anything, anything! Just nerves, that's all. Nerves…

On the other side of the square from him there was a café, the doors of which open; light, music, laughter and the odd drunk spilling into the street. The wind had dropped some time ago, and although the snow was still falling there was a decent crowd standing outside chatting and drinking. Bent on finding any sign of warmth or hospitality, Javert staggered his way across the square towards the café. As he drew nearer the crowd fell silent, conversation falling flat as every face turned to stare at him.

…_you have been transfigured into a creature of ill omen… a raven amongst the doves…_

Javert was more than aware of their gaze trained on him, and Fantine's words came flooding back into his head. What would they say? What would they do? No, stop it! He was chief of police; they wouldn't say or do anything. Stop it, and calm down.

"You imagined it," he muttered under his breath, trying to steady himself as much as he could, willing his beating heart to slow its pace. "It was nothing; nothing! It never happened…"

A man stepped forward from the crowd.

…_shunned as if the Mark of Cain were imprinted on his forehead…_

"Inspector?"

In the semi-gloom Javert recognised the figure of Jacques Mouillon, Captain of the Gendarmerie. He stumbled forward, grabbing hold of the captain's shoulders tightly, like a drowning man would cling to a plank of driftwood.

"Jacques!" he exclaimed between gasps for air. "Jacques! Oh, thank heaven – you're real!"

"Yes, monsieur; I'm real," said Mouillon, slowly. "And everyone else is real too. We've all been real for a very long time, sir."

"Yes, of course you're real!" snapped Javert, irritated by Mouillon's slightly patronising tone, and that after his initial shock he was slowly becoming aware of how unhinged he must be sounding to the assorted bystanders. "But the point is… the point is you are!"

Mouillon examined Javert carefully. He didn't look as if he'd been drinking, nor could he smell alcohol on his breath. He was breathing heavily, his previously pallid cheeks now becoming flushed from exertion, usually neat hair looking slightly windswept, dark eyes darting this way and that as if searching for something, or someone. There seemed to be nothing wrong save that it looked like he'd just had the shock of his life; which if was the case, would explain the non-sensical rambling. The captain then became aware that Javert's long fingers were digging into his shoulder so hard that it was beginning to go numb.

"Um, sir," said Mouillon, gently prising Javert's hand from his shoulder. "Hadn't you better come inside? You look as if you could do with a drink... to steady your nerves, sir."

Before the words left his mouth he knew it would be the wrong thing to say, even though it didn't stop him saying it. Javert was by all accounts a proud man, and to suggest that he was in such a state that he would _need_ to steady his nerves would not be something he would appreciate, especially when he was as agitated as he was now. But to his surprise the Inspector looked at him, a worried smile that was practically frightening on his face, letting out a laugh that sounded somewhere between a moan and a sigh of relief.

"Yes!" he said. "Yes, I think I do. I think I need several!"

Slightly bemused by his reaction, the captain was about to help him into the café when a gasp was to be heard to escape Javert's lips. Mouillon turned to see the Inspector staring at the opposite side of the square with wide, frightened eyes and an open mouth; his face frozen in an expression of fear.

"Inspector?" Mouillon asked cautiously.

Javert began to slowly shake his head, seemingly oblivious to the gendarmerie captain's presence, or that of the crowd. For what Javert could see on the other side of the square that the others could not was the figure of Fantine standing, watching him intently.

"Inspector? Are you all right?"

Javert started to back away, stumbling slightly, his breathing becoming more audible, terror clearly etched onto his features. Several of the onlookers were whispering and pointing, shuffling their feet uneasily, glancing around to try and see what was upsetting the Inspector so much. Meanwhile the spectre of Fantine was advancing towards Javert; a pleading look on her face, her pale, skinny hands stretched out to him.

"Inspector? Inspector!"

Javert ran. He ran and ran and the gendarmerie captain's cries were lost to the wind whistling past his ears, running this way and that, trying to lose whatever phantasm may be on his tail. If only he could make it back to the Place Gambetta; back to the post! There were other officers there, there was safety and light. He could barricade himself there till morning, safe from any spectres or ghosts, and emerge next day free from the horrors of the night. It was only two streets away, he could make it! But then he heard it; the slightest whisper on the wind, the sigh carried on the snowflakes that fell around to his ears…

At that moment he stumbled; slipping on a patch of tightly compacted snow, his knee giving way and hitting the floor hard, his whole right side scraping along the floor, his cheek grazing against the cobblestones. The grit and cold on the raw skin stung like hell, numbing him for a few fatal seconds. He turned to look behind him, to rise from the ground, but he was instantly paralysed on the spot. She was there, at the end of the alley. She stepped silently towards him, her bare feet making no impression in the snow.

"No…"

He endeavoured to scuffle backwards, but his right arm collapsed underneath him and a throbbing pain shot down that side of his body.

"No! No, go away! Go away!"

She advanced further, holding out her arm.

"No, you're not real! You can't be!"

Her pale, claw-like fingers closed around his shoulder. He let out a cry as once again the cold of her touch seared through his flesh, reducing him to tears.

"Inspector? Are you alright –"

"No!"

The two gendarmes stepped back in amazement from the quivering heap that was Inspector Javert. A few seconds later Jacques Mouillon came running around the corner, two other men in tow.

"What happened?"

"Dunno," said one of the gendarmes, shrugging in a slightly bewildered fashion. "Just heard this screaming and we came to see what it was. Found him here like this."

Mouillon looked down at Javert moaning and sobbing on the ground. He scratched his head and gave a worried sigh.

"Come on," he said, taking hold of one of Javert's huge arms. "Help me get him inside."


	2. Part II

**A/N:** Part II of III; A slightly different explanation as to how Javert got his transfer to Paris. Debatable point as to whether M. Chabouillet would use a public coach, or use post horses as Valjean did on his journey to Arras. I certainly think I know which one he would prefer. Some have pointed out that Part I was reminiscent of _"As Lucifer Fell"_. Apologies; it wasn't my intention for it to be so.

"_We break our enemies with fear  
And we've seen how the tears come around.  
We built our confidence on wasteland,  
We've seen how the walls come down."_ – 'Life Burns!', Apocalyptica

* * *

**Part II**

Disagreeable. The whole matter was very disagreeable indeed. M. Chabouillet once again unfolded the letter in his hands, re-read it and frowned. Yes, disagreeable was the only word for it.

The coach rumbled its way along the road to Arras, every now and then jolting its passengers as it hit an unexpected bump or pothole. In his haste M. Chabouillet had overlooked the task of making proper transport arrangements for his journey to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and so had resorted to a public coach. Currently he was sharing the cramped space inside with five other passengers; a young needlewoman, a third-rate fop, a naval lieutenant home on leave, a middle aged lady of independent means and a very fat, doddery old school master with a bad case of flatulence. At present the school master was asleep and snoring peacefully, the odd fart from the corner being his only interjection to the present conversation.

M. Chabouillet sat back against the hard seat; knees almost under his chin and wondered what sort of imbecile still built coaches without windows that could be opened. Although it was the middle of winter the atmosphere was stifling; no fresh air, cramped seats, the accumulating smell of methane was becoming irritatingly foul, and for all his frills and bad manners it was clear the fop's personal hygiene left much to be desired. He felt sorry enough for the poor souls who had to ride on the roof, but this wasn't much better; perhaps worse. At this particular point in time the fop was complaining very loudly about something or other, the lady of independent means agreeing emphatically. The naval lieutenant now and again gave the odd non-committed shrug of the shoulders, whilst the needlewoman nodded meekly, not wishing to be part of the conversation but equally not wanting to be seen as rude. The Secretary had lost the thread of the fop's monologue an hour or so back, so he had no idea what exactly was so backward about 'these little provinces'; nor did he have any particular desire to find out. The coach went over a bump in the road, and jolted by the sudden change of motion the schoolmaster momentarily woke.

"Eh? Very good, Pauchet. Now double that and times by three…"

And he went back to sleep, snoring gently as before.

On his arrival in the town, M. Chabouillet was greeted by an overly eager gendarme who'd been sent to meet and conduct him to the captain. On requesting that he see Inspector Javert first, the gendarme's face fell.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but the Inspector in't really fit to receive visitors," he said apologetically. "That's why I was told to take you to the captain, sir."

"What? Still?" M. Chabouillet looked alarmed. "But the incident occurred days ago!"

The gendarme visibly squirmed.

"You'll have to ask the captain 'bout that, sir."

Captain Mouillon seemed as reluctant to talk as the gendarme. At the police post, the Secretary received the same enthusiastic welcome, only to be met by further aversion when the subject of Javert was raised.

"We're so glad you could come, monsieur," said Mouillon, earnestly. "We were in need of on government opinion on the situation, but we did not mean to take you away from business in Paris."

"No, no it was no trouble," said the Secretary, passing out the lie dismissively. He had postponed three important meetings and two dinner engagements in order to get down here. "I was due to come and offer my congratulations to the Inspector, but it seems that is not possible at the moment. Is he terribly indisposed?"

The captain and gendarmes exchanged uneasy glances. There was an awkward silence in which the shuffling of boots could be distinctly heard, and in the background someone coughed.

"It depends what you mean by 'indisposed', sir," said Mouillon at length. "If you mean 'mad', then he is quite indisposed, sir."

"Mad?" M. Chabouillet started. "In what way? How?"

"The doctor reckoned it was shock," said the captain. "Shock and overwork."

M. Chabouillet cast a wary glance over Mouillon's face. Javert was a hardy soul and not a man whose nerves were easily rattled, so what could have possibly happened to achieve this hardly bore thinking about.

"We know you wanted to be kept informed on him, sir; we wouldn't have troubled you otherwise."

"No, no you did the right thing," M. Chabouillet sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring at the little pot-bellied stove in the corner. "I think it best that I see the Inspector for myself. Where is he now?"

"At home, monsieur," said Mouillon. "But I doubt you'll get any sense out of him."

When they arrived at his lodgings, they found Javert huddled in a chair in front of the fire looking rather the worse for wear. His breathing was noisy and shallow, his eyes fixed on a patch of floor a little way beyond his feet. Some kind soul had draped a thick woollen blanket over his shoulders, which the Inspector now held tightly around his torso. His greatcoat and scarf, still muddied from the incident in the street, lay on the table beside him. They had not found his hat, and it was widely supposed that by now it was long gone.

"Been like that all day, sir," murmured the captain. "Hasn't moved nor spoken since we sat him down there this morning."

"But surely he must have recovered by now, whatever may have happened?" asked M. Chabouillet, frowning. "I received your letter three days ago."

"He did, monsieur," said Mouillon. "Well, almost. He seemed fine a couple of days afterwards, but yesterday we found him here curled up in a corner, whimpering like a beaten puppy. He wouldn't let anyone touch him for hours, and even now he won't speak."

There was an uneasy silence as the Secretary contemplated the seemingly oblivious Javert, the only sounds to be heard being the crackling of the fire, the shuffle of the gendarmes boots and the shallow breath of the Inspector.

"I think it was the Valjean business, sir," said Mouillon, tapping his index finger against his temple. "It's affected him. When the Inspector was more himself he started talking about how he'd thought he'd seen a ghost; of that prostitute the mayor had been sheltering in his last month here. You remember her, monsieur? A woman named Fantine. He said she'd chased him through the streets, threatened him with a revelation and all sorts of promises of Hell; said when she touched him it froze his body through to the bone!"

Mouillon paused, another silence falling on the room as his gazed involuntarily swept back to Javert.

"Couldn't you transfer him, monsieur? Take him away from here? After the business with M. Ma… the convict, he hasn't been looked kindly upon by the town. People saying he's cursed, that he's part of a conspiracy an' all; and now he's started seeing things… Please, monsieur, he'll be ruined if he stays here."

M. Chabouillet pondered on the captain's words, at the same time trying to remember what Javert had told him of Jacques Mouillon in his letters. An open, honest countryman with no guile and, by police standards, a steady, sober man. Not the brightest spark in the forge, but reliable. M. Chabouillet had never known Javert to be 'affected' by anything to do with his work, but this had been a very _personal_ case. It was Javert who had denounced the convict, denounced after his authority as a police inspector had been seriously encroached upon, and Heaven knows Javert was _very_ protective of his authority. Then he had been laughed at by his own superiors and said to be mad, and then he'd received further humiliation by being allowed to keep his position when he had begged to be dismissed. It was little wonder to M. Chabouillet that Javert had shown outstanding zeal in the recapture of Valjean; he couldn't blame him, really.

There had, of course, been the rumours concerning Javert's motives; he'd expected as much after the news of the denouncement had been made public. In all honesty he had thought the matter would have blown over in a few weeks or so, but far from going away it would seem the malicious gossip had gathered strength as time went along. Now it appeared things had reached such a point where _something had to be done_. What exactly still remained to be seen.

"And you're certain he should recover if he were transferred?" he asked, once more contemplated the hunched figure before the fire.

"Undoubtedly, monsieur. It's this place that's turned against him; once gone it'll never bother him again."

M. Chabouillet nodded and, resolved, turned once more to the mute Inspector.

---------

It was half six in the morning as the porter heaved the large black portmanteau onto the roof of the coach. Ideally he would have preferred an earlier coach still, but this had been the best he could do, and in reality Javert didn't care; the sooner he was out of here the better. Somehow the world seemed right again; everything was in its place and there was no more confusion. Once more his life's course was clear-cut and he knew for certain where he was headed. Indeed, against the seeming reality of the last two days he might have been able to dismiss the past week as some odd, waking nightmare if it were not for the constant reminders in the form of the concerned and wary expressions on the faces of his men. He had just about convinced himself several days ago that he had suffered from a slight mental abstraction and was fit to return to work when she came to him again. In the small, Spartan room she had seemed more vivid than ever, no longer reduced to a possible nightmare of the dark streets, and again she had touched him, tortured him with her gaze until he was begging to expire on the spot; anything to rid him of her presence. The memory of it still made him shiver; she had seemed so _real_…

It was not that he was ungrateful for the transfer, far from it, but it was the way it came about that puzzled him. After Fantine's second visit he vaguely remembered sitting before the fire with a blanket around his shoulders, his mind drifting in and out of focus, when a voice had suddenly cut into his thoughts.

"_Javert?"_

He had started, snapping out of his reverie when he heard the familiar voice and turned to see M. Chabouillet, the Secretary of the Prefect standing in the doorway with Mouillon. For a moment he had just sat there, clutching convulsively at the blanket as he did so, mutely staring at the two figures whilst trying to decide whether they were real or not. At this, M. Chabouillet had shot a worried glance at Mouillon, who merely shrugged his shoulders with a look on his face as if to say _'What did I tell you?'_ Javert was still trying to work out the meaning behind this exchange of gesture when M. Chabouillet had turned back to him, cleared his throat and addressed him in a formal tone.

"_Javert, I'm here to inform you that you've been transferred."_

It took a while for the words to sink in, but with every moment he spent concentrated on the two men he found his mind was starting to work faster again. A few moments more and he was able to piece together some form of response.

"_T-transferred? Monsieur?"_

"_To Paris,"_ continued M. Chabouillet. _"It seems with the Valjean case you have excelled yourself in your present post; a man like you could be of great use in a city so littered with crime as Paris."_

"_Paris?"_

"_Paris."_

After that the Secretary had spouted some formal words of congratulation, reminded him of his duty and telling him to report to his new post before the end of the month. Then he had shook his limp hand, wished a speedy recovery, and swept out without another word. He had been somewhat confused by the whole incident, but his mind clung to the word 'transfer' like a limpet to a rock. He remembered being so overjoyed, so happy and relieved. And he had laughed. He had laughed until his sides hurt, until his ribs cracked and his stomach cramped, laughed until tears streaked down his face and he thought he might die. At this point he assumed he had passed out, considering he could remember nothing else from that moment on. It didn't matter though; he had woken the next morning in his bed, bright-eyed, quick-witted and determined to leave for Paris as soon as was humanly possible.

"Well, Monsieur Javert," said Mouillon. The captain had been standing beside him for the past five minutes, stamping his feet and bowing in his gloved hands. "We're sorry to see you go. It's been a privilege serving with you, sir."

It was the necessary parting compliment, and Javert accepted it with due grace, shaking hands sombrely and exchanging a slight nod of the head. He had received many similar sentiments throughout the progression of his career and never once did it cross his mind that there might have been some truth in the statements; merely the plainest civilities to officially mark the point where there was no turning back. His duty in Montreuil was now over; all he had to do was turn around, step into the carriage, close the door, maybe give a parting tip of his hat as the coach moves off, then settle down for the journey and don't look back.

However, as he reached down to pick up his bag a figure caught his attention. Trudging her way across the square was a woman in a dirtied, torn dress, a shawl pulled up over her head, clutched in place by two pale, skeletal hands, her feet bare and red from the cold. A usual sight in Montreuil nowadays, but for some reason he could not explain Javert's gaze was drawn to her, and he paused to watch her walk. Suddenly she turned her head to him, turned so he could see her face and their eyes met. Cold, blue depths that searched into his soul, made his mind scream for mercy and paralysed his thoughts… then she ducked back under the shawl and continued on her way, shivering as she went.

Javert stood petrified, paralysed with shock. For a few moments he stayed like that, his cane slipping from his grasp to fall clattering on the cobblestones. He didn't hear the captain's query as to what was the matter, didn't register the people he pushed aside as he ran across the square, didn't even realise what he was doing until he caught hold of the girl, turned her roughly to face him, ripping the shawl away from her head. The woman giving a surprised shriek as he did so, and it was this that awoke his senses when presented with the sight in front of him. Short blonde hair, an emaciated frame and pale, dirty skin… but brown eyes, front teeth still in place. A completely different girl. A large, black bruise covered the left side of her astonished face, and he could see bruises lined her pale, skeletal arms.

"I, I'm sorry, ma'amselle… Forgive me, I –"

But the girl did not stay to listen. She turned and ran, pulling the shawl back up over her head and vanished down a side-street, sobbing as she went. Javert was left standing there, his eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley she had disappeared into. Normally he would have pursued her, stopped her, asked her name, questioned her as to who gave her those bruises and when... But it wasn't his jurisdiction; not anymore. He had moved on. Even though he hadn't physically left the town yet he could sense it was no longer his. Oh, God in Heaven, he needed to get out; get out now whilst his sanity was still in tact!

He turned back to the coach where he saw Mouillon and the driver waiting, watching him anxiously. They wanted to know what was wrong, he could see that coming, but he didn't have the will to explain; wasn't sure that he could. Instead he just bowed his head slightly and shook his head with a sigh. It was an expression he didn't often use, but one that bore great significance. It meant 'no good'; a signal to abandon chase, to admit defeat. Mouillon had only seen this gesture twice, but he understood it better than any other and he nodded his head, stepping back to allow the Inspector to pick up his bag and mount the coach steps unquestioned. He held out his hand.

"Good luck, monsieur."

Javert took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

"Goodbye."

He heaved himself in to the carriage and once seated inside, the door closed behind him, he turned to view Montreuil-sur-Mer one last time. It had always been a quiet town, but today it seemed even quieter. There was a tension in the air, as if the entire populace were simultaneously holding its breath. He saw it in their faces as the carriage passed by; urchins, prostitutes, soldiers, merchants, workers, even in the gaunt, now empty windows of Madeleine's factories… He would not be welcome here again. But what did that matter now? Why should it matter? He was leaving them all behind, leaving this godforsaken little province for good and never coming back. In Paris, Montreuil would no longer matter; none of it would. It would be as if four years of his life never happened, for the city would acquire his whole attention day and night leaving no time for memories or idle reflection. In Paris he could forget any ghosts that had haunted him here, any lingering doubts or regrets. In Paris he could start anew, and he would forget Jean Valjean.


End file.
